A/N: Pretty much a random idea that came to mind. I've recently gotten into the next generation, learning all I could about them and filling in the many holes that I find with my own spin on things. I had this idea stuck in my head about Roxanne, George's daughter, touching his damaged ear. How I got from that innocent gesture to implying George/Fred - well, I don't know. /shrugs/ It just happened.
Characters/Pairing: Roxanne, Fred II, George / implied George/Fred, implied George/Fred II
Warnings: Gen, poetry, angst, implied slash, implied twincest, implied incest
Word count: 554
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Kiss to the Knuckles, Kiss to the Palm
When I was little, I use to sit in my father's lap, giggling at his silly faces.
Sometimes Freddy, still a toddler learning to walk, would join us.
Together we would laugh at father's silly faces.
He also made silly sounds with his mouth to make us laugh even harder.
However, there were times when he stopped suddenly and just stared at Freddy.
A far away look in his eyes.
So sad.
So haunted.
To this day I see those eyes in my dreams.
Worried, I would reach out with my small hand and touch his ear, the one he damaged during the war.
Almost unconsciously, he would take my hand, almost as dark as mum's, and press his lips against my knuckles.
With a twinkle in his eyes, the haunted look gone as sudden as it had appeared, he would turn my hand palm up and place a kiss on it.
It always made me giggle then.
---
When I was older, a young woman in her early teens, I didn't sit in father's lap anymore.
I sat on the floor by his feet, listening to his stories.
Freddy, a young boy now, joined me.
Together we listened to stories about the war.
We listened to stories about father's and uncle Fred's pranks and mischief.
We listened to stories about uncle Fred.
That far away look often returned.
Freddy would tug father's pants leg.
I tugged his arm.
Only when I touched his missing ear would he snap out of it.
A kiss on my knuckles.
A kiss on my palm.
It still made me giggle, but I was concerned.
---
When I was a young woman, just at the brink of becoming an adult, much too tall to sit in father's lap.
Instead, I sat with him on the couch, reading a book in silence.
Fred, a young man in his teens, sat on the floor.
He sat there quietly, picking at the rug.
Father didn't talk as much anymore.
Instead, he sat there and stared down at Fred.
The haunted look was becoming commonplace now.
Touching his ear didn't always work.
I missed father kissing my hand.
Fred was the one who got up and touched father's ear.
Father responded to the touch.
A kiss to the knuckles.
A kiss to the palm.
Fred didn't giggle like I use to.
He had his own far away look in his eyes.
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When I was an adult, no longer daddy's little girl, my father was sickly.
I sat by him as he lied in bed, looking over him.
Fred, a man now, stood uneasily in the corner of the room.
His arms crossed, silent.
Father was telling his stories again.
They blended into each other now.
Added on from other people's memories.
He didn't speak about uncle Fred anymore.
The haunted look was always there now.
I touched his ear to calm his babbling.
He fell silent.
A kiss to the knuckles.
A kiss to the palm.
I smiled at my father.
However, his smile was directed at Fred in the corner.
Except, I had this feeling.
He wasn't seeing Fred his son.
He was seeing Fred his brother.
Fred in the corner, shuffled uneasily.
His own haunted eyes flinching at their own memories.
I finally understood why their eyes were haunted.
-End-
